


The War of the Roses

by Paraphilia



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Drama, Epiphanies, M/M, Morning After, Morning Sex, Non-Explicit Sex, Opposites Attract, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraphilia/pseuds/Paraphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian likes picking roses in the morning. Klaus gives him a good reason to break that habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The War of the Roses

Dorian crept back into bed, careful not to wake the Major. He should let sleeping dragons lie; soon enough, this particular dragon would be wide awake, and breathing its usual fire.  
  
Fire. Last night had certainly been  _fiery_ , hadn't it? Although Klaus might pretend it had never happened, and all would be cold in Dorian's world again.  
  
Asleep, Klaus looked less draconian than he normally did; his brow was almost smooth, marred only by the frown lines that Dorian had grown to love. His eyes were closed, but that only served to remind Dorian of how vivid they were when they were open; how beautifully they expressed Klaus's intensity and ferocity of purpose, whether on a mission or whether... in bed.  
  
God. He was remembering last night. Again. And he'd promised not to torment himself by thinking about it, until Klaus had confirmed or denied what had happened; until Dorian knew what to  _do_ with himself, with this elation that bordered on terror. Or was it terror bordering on elation? Did it even matter?  
  
His hair swung forward as he leaned over Klaus, and it brushed Klaus's lips. They parted -- in sleep, perhaps? Remembrance?  
  
A kiss wouldn't hurt. Just one. Just to remember him by...  
  
But no sooner had Dorian moved than a hand shot out to grab him -- a very familiar, very vise-like grip around Dorian's right arm.  
  
Klaus's eyes were open. And fixed on him.  
  
"Oh," said Dorian, rather meekly. "Good morning."  
  
Klaus didn't answer. His eyes narrowed; his grip didn't loosen at all.  
  
Dorian's heart stopped. This was going to be a denial, wasn't it? Would Klaus rail at him, for tempting him off the  _straight_ -and-narrow? Or would it be a determined indifference, without even the mercy of acknowledgment?  
  
The hand tightened; Dorian winced.  
  
"Stop that," said Klaus, and Dorian shuddered. Klaus's fingers, hot and firm through the fabric of Dorian's peignoir, were reminding him rather forcefully of last night. Which he had to stop thinking about. Because it would obviously never happen again.  
  
"Stop what?"  
  
" _Looking_  like that. Stop it."  
  
And what did he look like? Dorian was about to ask, but then the hand was urging him down, not away, and Klaus's nose was buried in his hair. A thin mouth, still warm from sleep, moved against Dorian's neck. "What time is it?"  
  
"Eight," Dorian replied, dizzily. This didn't make any sense. They were -- they'd just -- and  _time_? Who was this man, and what had he done with Klaus Eberbach?  
  
"Too late," Klaus muttered, even though it was a Sunday. And then: "Where were you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You smell revolting."  
  
There.  _That_  was familiar. "I was picking roses," said Dorian, his tone lightening to its usual timbre. "Why, darling? Don't you like it? The scent of roses in the morning..."  
  
"I'd prefer the smell of napalm." Klaus's voice was flat. His fingers were at Dorian's nape, now, gathering his hair and lifting it aside. "You're queer enough as it is. Stop  _perfuming_  yourself with..." Klaus trailed off.  
  
"Klaus?"  
  
"Damn you," Klaus hissed. His words were dark with displeasure. "Where is it?"  
  
Where was what? But before he could speak, Klaus had flipped him over -- his fingers still tangled painfully in Dorian's hair. Dorian sucked in a breath; it wasn't a playful flip, after all, but a patented Major Eberbach flip, knocking the air out of him.  
  
"Not all of us are in the military, you know," Dorian wheezed. "You ought to... Oh." It was Dorian's turn to trail off. Because Klaus wasn't lecturing him, or dumping him in bed and leaving, or fuming, or shouting, or doing any of the things Dorian had expected him to. Instead, what Klaus was doing was --  
  
" _Oh_..."  
  
Licking him. Klaus was -- Dorian's throat -- and it felt --  
  
"Hot," said Dorian, because it was. And, "God," because that's what  _Klaus_  was.  
  
Whatever had caused the Major to lose his mind, or completely switch personalities, Dorian was all for it. Maybe it was the roses. Or maybe it was last night, during which Klaus had also exhibited a switch -- between a tigerish NATO officer and a tigerish -- well -- NATO officer. And Dorian couldn't think. Had there been a switch? Or was it a paradigm shift? And why did his  _thoughts_  have so many syllables, when his mouth could only produce very breathy, very low, very monosyllabic moans?  
  
"Klaus," rasped Dorian, his fingers closing on a naked shoulder. Klaus.  _Naked_. Klaus was -- and sod this peignoir, anyway -- "Klaus,  _please_  -- "  
  
"Damn you," said Klaus, again. Dorian decided that he rather liked being damned.  
  
"Damn me, then." It was safer than saying  _Fuck me_ , and probably more effective, too. " _Damn_  me -- " He was erect, so painfully erect, even though Klaus wasn't even touching him properly. All Klaus was doing was licking Dorian's throat -- nothing else -- with the feral concentration of a large cat with its toy.  
  
 _He's gone mad_ , thought Dorian, and also,  _God, yes._  Major Eberbach had finally gone over the edge. And what a fabulous edge it was!  
  
Dorian's mind was swiftly becoming too hazy for rational thought, and his last conscious decision was to let Klaus lick away at him without interfering or reciprocating. Based on last night's experience, he only let Dorian reciprocate when he had completely established his control -- at which point, of course, he completely lost it. This might've been annoying with any other man, but Klaus was hardly any other man. Klaus was  _his_. Dorian's left leg certainly thought so, because it had folded upwards and back, and was currently locked around Klaus's waist. His very  _bare_  waist. Dorian's hips surged.  
  
What was that about reciprocation? Reci... proca...  
  
"There it is," Klaus said, with satisfaction. The kind he usually reserved for microfilms.  
  
That didn't make any sense, either. But then, Klaus  _had_  gone mad; or else the roses Dorian had picked this morning had hallucinogenic properties, and this was a fevered dream that Dorian had no intention of waking up from.  
  
"Yes," Dorian gasped. "Here. Right here..."  
  
" _Here_ ," echoed Klaus, and bit him. Hard.  
  
The world went white.  
  
Literally. Dorian's brain managed to string together a jumble of words, involving fangs and dragons and breathing fire -- but then everything went blank, for a glorious, soaring moment, in which Dorian neither had to know nor care that he'd come from this alone. A man of his experience. Coming, just from --  
  
"Here," Klaus was still saying, when Dorian returned from nirvana. The hand that had fisted in Dorian's hair now relaxed, and performed a peremptory -- if rather more gentle -- sweep down to Dorian's shoulder.  
  
Dorian held his breath.  
  
Then the hand lifted, and Klaus moved away.  
  
 _No kiss?_  Dorian thought, but he had enough sense not to say that out loud. Not now. Klaus was turned away from him, leaning over the edge of the bed to rifle in the pockets of his discarded suit. For his cigarettes, presumably. Dorian used the opportunity to ogle what seemed like miles of flexing Eberbach trapezoids. He also marveled, somewhat disbelievingly, over the fact that this had actually happened -- that Klaus was still here, and that denial was, apparently, not on the menu.  
  
A tremulous joy began to surface from the cooling ashes of Dorian's lust. His pyjamas were sticky, but not just on the inside; Dorian wasn't the only one who came.  
  
This was it. This was  _it_  -- the culmination of Dorian's dreams and desires, his most precious hopes brought to life.  
  
A lighter snapped. Dorian looked up to see Klaus tossing it back onto the ground, tipping his head back and inhaling from his cigarette. He slouched against the headboard, closing his eyes; his shoulders relaxed as soon as he exhaled, as if a sedative had kicked in.  
  
" _Gut_ ," sighed Klaus, letting his head drop forward. Dorian studied the sharp nose and closed eyes -- which opened a second later, to flick at Dorian accusingly. "Damned roses," Klaus said. "Disgusting. Don't bring them in here again."  
  
Here -- again? Again. He said  _again_. This was acceptance, wasn't it? Not denial at all. Not denial!  
  
"I..." Roses. Dorian loved roses. He'd always loved roses, but if Klaus asked him to never touch another rose again, he'd do it. He'd do anything. "Of course."  
  
"Filthy, foppish things."  
  
"They're  _flowers_ , Klaus." Why was Dorian saying this? Hadn't he decided not to defend them? "They're not filthy -- "  
  
"They  _are_." Klaus stabbed the cigarette at him. "Hid it from me, didn't they?"  
  
"Hid what?" Was Klaus still on about that? Whatever it was. He'd been spouting nonsense ever since he'd woken up; not that Dorian minded, if nonsense led to such sensible sex.  
  
"You. Your. This." Klaus reached across, with the hand that wasn't holding the cigarette -- he wrapped that hand around Dorian's throat, brushing his thumb against the pulse.  
  
Dorian stared at him.  
  
" _This_ ," Klaus repeated. He pressed his thumb over the pulse; right where he'd licked Dorian, and the pressure of it made Dorian shiver, infinitesimally. "Don't hide it. Never hide it from me. Understand?"  
  
 _No_ , Dorian wanted to squeak. He didn't know whether he was being threatened or propositioned; or if there was even any difference between the two, when it came to Klaus. "Yes," he said, finally. As if he could say anything else.  
  
Klaus let go of him. Took another puff of the cigarette, glanced at the clock, and got out of bed. Dorian watched it all with a pounding heart: Klaus wrapping a sheet around himself, being miserly as always about his nudity; Klaus huffing about the stupidity of a weekend without work; Klaus snuffing out his cigarette in an ashtray; Klaus heading for the shower, without glancing back.  
  
"What?" Dorian asked the empty room. "What just...?"  
  
He knew that, logically speaking -- or  _lust_ fully speaking -- he should've followed Klaus into the bathroom. Not that Klaus would've let him, but still. It was the thought that counted.  
  
Instead, Dorian found himself unable to move from the bed. He threw an arm over his eyes and counted to ten; he heard Klaus switch on the shower, and counted to twenty. He was afraid that if he stopped counting, he would either drown in confusion or sublimate in joy. There was no middle ground.  
  
He drew up his knees. Damn it, he was aroused again. Klaus and his cryptic, possibly insane proclamations... How on earth was Dorian supposed to make sense of them?  
  
 _If I'm Alice, would that make Klaus the Mad Hatter? But he's the March Hare, isn't he? Always marching._  
  
The bedroom was quiet with Klaus gone. All there was of him was the strangely angry mess of sheets he'd left behind. Goodness. Even his  _sheets_  were angry. The air, by contrast, was heavy with the scent of roses. If there was any bitterness in it, it was the slight trace of Klaus's cigarette. The scent of nicotine.  
  
Dorian breathed in -- trying to capture it, that sliver of Klaus-scent.  
  
Klaus tasted of nicotine. Smelled like it. Dorian had never been much of a smoker, but after meeting Klaus, he'd become badly addicted to it -- to Klaus's potent, obscure brand of German cigarettes, as difficult to find as it was to smoke. And yet he found himself wanting to taste it -- Klaus's scent -- even when Klaus was away.  
  
 _Don't hide it from me._  
  
Dorian sat up with a jerk, so suddenly that his head swam.  
  
No. It couldn't be. Not that. Or could it?  
  
Klaus would never say something like that. He'd never -- to ask Dorian not to hide his  _scent_  -- he'd never ask for it!  
  
Then again, he hadn't. Not really. He'd implied. Taught by example, even. But he hadn't  _said_  it.  
  
 _You. Your. This._  
  
Dorian gaped at the roses. Then at his hands. At the roses again.  
  
Foppish, filthy things. Was that what Klaus had called them? But wasn't Dorian filthy and foppish, too? Unless Klaus thought otherwise; unless he'd revised his opinion, before spending the night with Dorian. Unless that was  _why_  he'd spent the night with Dorian.  
  
Oh, god.  
  
Inside the bathroom, Klaus switched the shower off.  
  
Outside, Dorian lunged out of bed. Grabbed the vase.  
  
Wet feet padded towards the bathroom door.  
  
Dorian raced to the window, throwing it open.  
  
The door's latch clicked.  
  
Dorian hung over the sill, upending the vase over the front lawn. The roses scattered, wind-blown, into a pattern of red-on-green.  
  
Thank goodness the gardener wasn't down there.  
  
"You -- " Klaus sounded stunned. "That -- "  
  
At least Dorian wasn't the only one hyphenating, anymore.  
  
He turned around, panting, to look at Klaus.  
  
Klaus looked back at him. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, and another slung across his shoulders. Bloody miser. He could've given Dorian a little more of a show, after that ridiculous race to the window!  
  
A breeze drifted in from the lawn. It ruffled Dorian's hair, not nearly as rough as Klaus had been. It didn't anchor him. Didn't keep him.  _Never hide it from me._  
  
The scent of roses began to fade from the room, carried out by the summer wind.  
  
"That's better," Klaus said. He was toweling his hair, now. Not looking at Dorian at all. But that was a rare mercy, insofar as mercies went -- because Dorian, suddenly boneless, had sunk to his knees.  
  
"Yes," answered Dorian. The empty vase rolled away from his grasp. "Oh, yes."  
  
  
 **Fin.**


End file.
